Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Phone didn't ring at 10:30 phone rang at 7:30

hands come out of head at night
the half-sunk project
of memory and medicine
because we abandon one sunset
and dart towards a million sunrises
our nostrils breed machine-fumes, electric durability
our men and women glide along the smooth, glassy surface
at times it seems as if their feet don’t touch the ground
their shadows don’t fall on river
their tigers don’t rove the wilderness and wildernesses
their tigers aren’t naked enough
their tigers will drown when the flood arrives
and dark waters rise
till there’s nothing but dark silent water.

party at the empty wagon
the drinks are strong
us gamblers, we’re ready
dreamers die and doers get bored
their medicine isn’t memory yet
their great Doc has starved to death

thus, you’re all blue, and social
and all ways are easy to take
children sit on Tree of Death
and weave the tales of world
in moments between the barrel and skin & flesh
frozen in flashes, like eternity ever were
your eyes, ah, your eyes
surprise. surprise.
(NB: The primary disease is so commonplace that it isn’t much of a disease anymore)

let’s go
where your sounds become colours
owls break free from clouds & trousers
let’s be polite as we stand in queue
waiting for the unwritten bulletin
and believe that the world has a huge head
and a pair of huge hands will come out of it
and sweep this filth away. all before the rain.
weather reports arrive from August, September,
hissing for deliverance, like birds,
choked, as they ever were,
to wake to unbelievable infinite Universe. But first, proceed,
hug your shadows and hug them tight
long is the way and tough is the fight
where the sun wears a crimson bun
the moon has robes of sleek silk
and Mama Death, she keeps her hair open
and makes certain concessions for the hopeless
and the hounded – as they eat the stars,
gouge out eyes of blind gods and eat those eyes too
and eat the pencil-marks on the edge.
Thus the meal is complete and wholesome
we wash our faces and sail ahoy
and toil hard to make cutlasses out of question marks
and behead the haters of the heart with them,
blood rises with letters of love, rises to eat
strong heads of primitive, absurd mountains in starlight
but the journey is essential –
pining, as we ever were – wet crows in cornices
to surround all seats and flying thrones with watercolour, goatmilk and new turns on old bends
reach Liberation Inn
the Innkeeper takes mercy as rent
the glasses are full. Women sing soft songs of defeat
Tiny red lamp glows on walls, hide portraits of many who died
to reach and of a few who reached to die:
in kind, golden forgetting
with holes in pockets and brain
all because the third obstacle, as we were told
shivers in green and violins
but the tellers have reached the fourth one now
but their signals do not reach here,
in this dank porthole,
where I don’t hear you,
can’t see you,
turtles turn into shadows of tigers
and tramcars turn into balloon-tailed almost-epiphanies
but some half-starved postcards, screaming for relief
sickened by friendly monsters who stand still and nod
hide their eyes from pictures of clouds and snow –
pretty enough to bring a teardrop or two forth when the engines get silent
pretty because sullen frangipani blooms
and all levees and fortresses get breached. Our children shall win one day.

There was an Emperor who proclaimed:
‘give me every brick in the world and I’ll make
a palace so big that it will have everything. everything.’
he was given every brick and more
and he got the palace built.
Unaware, the lost ship returned after 20 years
The Captain who was old and weary
saw the palace from far away. He got the cannon aimed at it
and fired the seven salvoes that remained.
And then the ship drifted far away.
The Emperor is still around
He’d hidden in a hole below the ground
he’s used to the darkness
and now to him the hole is the palace
and it has everything.
I have a map that leads straight to the hole.
the ship was never seen again.

Another king was Belshazzar. He was silent.
Much darkness was borne by light
we who have no faith, nor hope,
we who play with dead bulls, pelt stones at fiddlers on roofs
we who lack in style and permanence, attack windmills,
take love for politics and politics for love – doubted the sounds
slighted the furies, coveted the satin and the satin-dancer –
we haven’t seen hourglasses except in infrequent museums
we don’t know Belshazzar and it doesn’t matter,
we don’t know of the monstrosity that dances in soft sharp silence
when the world sleeps, of the castle that rises from the swamps that once
was a river in mad rage on sultry lonesome summernoon –
we who have created sincerity and have adapted to such & other creations,
having known to rule and be ruled, to love and be loved,
to ignore warning signals until they fall in place with the bigger blueprint –
we will step down from our pedestals now
we will hide our faces in the pillows and weep
thinking that no one can see us
thankful for invisibility, that the skies & oceans are blue with our poison
gets easier to accept this way, houses of hunger & history fill up.

certain dogs that live and die
sit behind me, aware
when it’s quite & still enough to expect prophesies
we run out of bullets and adverbs
prisoners of stone and flesh guard all ways of exist
happy judges hang upside down from moon-balloon
but their laughter hangs far away.
all in all, a bit of a catastrophe
like ink on paper,
sun on sunflower
rivers on fire
et cetera.
but the dogs are calm, they wipe their faces with soft white towels
and even share bananas with me.
their mercy makes me move
their mercy makes the world move.

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